Broken Hearted Me
by pgrabia
Summary: Is Wilson ill, or simply stressed out? Written for the We 'heart' Wilson challenge at the sick!Wilson community on LJ. Two-shot. SPOILERS for all seasons up to and including 7x11. Warning: coarse language, sexuality, suicide ideation.  H/W preslash/slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Broken hearted Me **(Part 1 of 2)

**Author: ****pgrabia**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Genre(s): **AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!House, Pre-Slash, Romance

**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy / House-Wilson preslash, mention of House/Cuddy established relationship.

**Word Count: **3598

**Warnings: ****Spoilers** for all Seasons and episodes up to Season 7 episode 11 "Family Medicine".

**Rating: **NC-17(M)

**Author's Notes:** Written for the We 'Heart' Wilson challenge at sick_Wilson on LJ. Prompt was the word "heart".

**Broken-Hearted Me**

**Part One**

_**Every now and then I cry  
Every night you keep stayin' on my mind  
All my friends say I'll survive  
It just takes time  
But I don't think time is gonna heal this broken heart  
No I don't see how it can if it's broken all apart  
A million miracles could never stop the pain  
Or put all the pieces together again  
No I don't think time is gonna heal this broken heart  
No I don't see how it can while we are still apart  
And when you hear this song  
I hope that you will see  
That time won't heal a broken-hearted me.**_

_-"Broken Hearted Me" by Anne Murray._

Three Months Before:

I stalked into my best friend's office, ready to tear into him for what he'd done the night before. Just as he did to me time and time again I didn't bother to knock but instead barged in to find him in the middle of a passionate kiss with his girlfriend, our boss, Lisa Cuddy.

"House!" I had said on my way in and then stopped in my tracks, feeling embarrassed for marching in on them. "Sorry, I'll come back…"

I turned to leave by the same way I'd come. I really didn't want to watch them make out. They didn't show affection for each other at work very often but when they did they frequently got carried away. To see him holding her in his arms and him in hers only stirred the green-eyed monster inside of me and put me into a foul mood for the rest of the day.

"Wait, Wilson! Stay," Cuddy called after me magnanimously. I already had one foot outside the door when I stopped. Turning back around cautiously I was relieved to see that they had broken the embrace. That didn't ease the tightness in my chest like it usually did.

"I was just leaving," she told me, her face lit with joy. As she walked past me on her way to the door she stopped briefly and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder. I tensed automatically. "Oh, and about last night, I'm sorry. I had no idea he was going to do that." With that, she was gone.

"Yes," I said, most of my steam spent by then but the anger still there, "about that?. What gives? If you wanted me to leave, you didn't have to drug me! All you had to do was tell me."

"Yeah," House retorted, rolling his eyes at me, "like that would have worked." He went to his desk and sat down. Immediately he opened his laptop and did what he'd been doing a lot of over the preceding months— he ignored me.

"That's it? That's all you have to say about it?" I demanded, the tightness in my chest becoming heaviness instead.

"What's there to say, Wilson?" the diagnostician said to me. "You were an unwanted pest, just like Cuddy's mother. I simply knocked the two of you out so Cuddy and I could have a few hours alone."

His words stung me. He thought of me as a pest. There hadn't been any teasing or humor in his voice and features when he'd said it, which meant that he meant it. I had gone from being friend and (usually) welcome companion to 'pest'. Well, at least that explained why he had been ignoring me as much as possible lately.

I didn't contain my hurt very well.

"Fuck you, House!" I snapped before leaving, returning to my office to sulk.

After work I did what I usually did since Sam walked out on me—I stopped at a bar on my way home and got loaded. After I was cut off, the bartender called me a cab. The next morning I took a cab back to the bar and picked up my car on my way to work. All I could think about was the fact that House thought of me as nothing more than a pest these days.

The heaviness in my chest lasted for three days straight after that.

Two and a Half Months Before:

I returned from the oncology conference in Chicago where I was the keynote speaker to learn via House's team some shocking news. Cuddy's mother, Arlene, had become ill from heavy metal poisoning and had nearly died before House had figured out what was wrong with her. I was bothered that Cuddy would have allowed him to take Arlene's case. It had been unethical for him to have done so with someone so closely associated with him.

I was even more alarmed when I was told that House had tried to avoid being involved in Arlene's case but Cuddy had insisted, playing the "This is My Mother' card. It infuriated me to know that she had once again used emotional manipulation to make House treat her mother even though it was wrong. However, none of it surprised me at all. This was situation normal between the two lovers (I cringed at the word when associated to House and her) since they had begun their relationship.

I went to Cuddy's office to talk with her about it. She was less than pleased with me for bringing up the subject.

"Who told you about that?" she demanded, frowning.

"Cuddy, it's been circulated via the grapevine. It doesn't matter who told me because everybody who works at this hospital knows," I answered, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "Don't you think that was unfair to him? He was compelled by his boss to take a case that was unethical for him to be a part of in order to please and remain in the good graces of his girlfriend who just happens to be the same person."

"I didn't compel him to do anything," she defended, glaring at me. "I asked him to take my mother's case because it was important to me that she got the best doctor. Knowing how much it meant to me he agreed."

I looked at her in disbelief. "That's not the story I heard from his team. Cuddy, you never ask anyone for anything; you tell everyone in your life what you want and how they are going to give it to you. In many ways that's a useful quality in a leader, but House isn't just your employee—he's your boyfriend. There needs to be respect and equality there. You misused your professional authority to command him to treat Arlene and then kept him doing it using guilt to manipulate him personally. You put him in an impossible position."

Cuddy's jaw set and her nostrils flared ever-so-slightly. I knew that she had decided to dig in her heels and would concede nothing.

_Of course not_, I thought cynically_. She's never wrong._

"Dr. Wilson, this is none of your business personally or professionally," she told me sternly. "Stick to that which is."

I felt the heaviness in my chest increase; it never really went away anymore. This time, however, it was accompanied by lightheadedness and a strange fluttering of my heart. _Stress,_ I told myself with a silent sigh.

"House is my friend," was what I told her as I rose slowly to my feet. The lightheadedness refused to pass. The air between us felt so thick with tension that I literally found it difficult to breathe. "That makes it my business."

Cuddy rose from her desk as well, glaring at me with icy grey eyes.

"He's my _boyfriend,_" she said, "and I say it isn't. Go back to your department, Doctor, and do your job so I can do mine."

My body was trembling and I wasn't certain whether it was from anger or from there being something physically wrong with me. I wanted to make a snide remark but reminded myself that she was my boss, so I refrained. As I walked back to my office my lightheadedness became dizziness. Once alone in the elevator as it rose up toward the fourth floor I allowed myself to lean heavily against the wall of the car. My chest was hurting now and my heart was fluttering around like several butterflies were flapping away inside my ribcage. The world around me seemed to be spinning just enough to disorient me.

_This is happening too often,_ I thought, concerned. I determined to tell my psychiatrist about these symptoms, pretty certain myself that they were all part and parcel of an anxiety attack. I figured she could prescribe a mild sedative for times like this.

Once off the elevator I headed for my office, sticking close to the wall in case my dizziness worsened and I needed something to hold onto. As I passed House's office I glanced in through the glass wall more out of habit than anything else; we literally hadn't so much as said hello to each other since he'd called me a pest (that hadn't stopped me from loving him, though, and wondering how he was doing). It was as if he sensed me there because he looked up at that moment and our eyes met. There was a sadness and regret in his crystalline blues that hadn't been there a couple of weeks ago; they mirrored the emotions I was feeling at that moment. I was tempted to turn into his office but I didn't. The moment passed and House returned his attention to the book he had been reading.

I sighed and managed to get to my office without tripping over my own two feet. The lightheadedness and dizziness passed, but the heaviness pressing down on my sternum and the shortness of breath did not.

Two Months Before:

I sat in front of the TV all alone in my big, empty loft apartment. I was drunk, having consumed a large amount of scotch most of the evening; being loaded was my favorite state of being these days. It usually had the effect of numbing the pain I felt at being abandoned by my best friend, the person I loved more than anyone else in the world. I had come to the realization that House may have needed me around all these years but he hadn't really cared about me. I had only deluded myself into thinking he had.

The alcohol also helped me to avoid thinking about the heaviness of my chest and the other symptoms I had been experiencing daily for over a month. My psychiatrist had agreed that my issue was most likely an anxiety disorder complicated by stress so she had prescribed diazepam for me and had upped my Wellbutrin dosage as well.

I may have been drunk but I also felt the stress intensely again so I took two pills, even though I was drunk. I was a doctor, I reasoned, so I knew how much I could take before I was in danger of hurting myself. After a while I found myself pleasantly stoned as well as loaded; I simply sat on the sofa, and enjoyed the floating feeling, the euphoria. I was finding myself short of breath again but it didn't bother me in the slightest. Nothing did.

The doorbell rang followed by the sound of wood hitting wood. I felt so tranquil that I didn't want to get up—so I didn't. House began calling to me through the door as well as hitting it with his cane.

"Wilson! I know you're in there. Answer the door."

Even as high as I was, I found myself surprised by his presence. I didn't think that he knew I existed anymore. Somehow I stood on what felt like boneless legs and made it to the front door. I fumbled with the lock and then opened the door, staggering back a foot or so.

I thought I was staring at a stranger who was really good at imitating the world-renowned diagnostician's voice. House stood there wearing a grey, single breasted suit with a darker grey dress shirt, pressed and starched, underneath. Around his neck was a red silk tie and on his feet were grey leather loafers. He was clean shaven and groomed. I barely recognized him but _damn_ did he look good (except for being clean-shaven, that is. I preferred the look of his scruff on him)! The word 'scrupdilliicious' came to mind; I wanted to taste his mouth which was downturned in the corners. His intense blue eyes assessed me analytically.

"Hi," I said cheerfully, smiling (goofily) at him and slurring my words. "Come on in."

I left him at the door and staggered back to the sofa where I kind of fell onto it and giggled between pants for breath.

House had shut the door behind him and followed me into the living room. I grinned up at him, genuinely happy to see him, and if I hadn't been quite so drunk there would have been another part of my body happy to see him, too. He stared down at me with a combination of amusement and concern.

"So tell me," House said sarcastically, "what does the earth really look like from orbit?"

I laughed far too hard at that and patted the empty spot on the sofa right next to me. "Come sit down. Wanna drink?" I began to fill my glass with more scotch.

House shook his head and his eyes scanned me again. "No thanks," he said, "you've had enough for both of us."

Once again I found that incredibly funny and began laughing again. Damn, I felt good! I had no idea it would be like this. I determined to mix booze and bennies again sometime.

House's eyes surveyed the room, taking in the mess. When I was drunk I didn't feel much like cleaning up after myself like I did when sober. His eyes stopped at the coffee table. He reached down and picked up the two amber pill bottles sitting next to the half-bottle of scotch. After reading the labels he threw me a glare of concern.

"You've been mixing Valium with alcohol?" he demanded. "And Wellbutrin? You're still on antidepressants?"

He sat down right next to me on the sofa, close enough that I could feel his body heat against my skin. His cologne wafted over to me and quite frankly it made me want to bury my face in the crook of his neck and start nibbling.

"Not still," I slurred. "Again. Gimme those!" I tried to reach for the bottles but he moved them out of my reach before I could grab them from him.

House was silent for a moment or two, probably trying to decide what to do with me.

"You smell _gooood_," I crooned, leaning towards him. I was smiling lazily at him. "But, then you always do, especially when you're hot and sweaty."

He raised an eyebrow at that but otherwise ignored the remark, probably chalking it up to the intoxicants in my system. The truth was, I meant every word but I never would have found the courage to say it out loud if I had been sober. Flying as high as I was, I simply didn't care.

"You missed work for two days in a row without even calling in or answering your phone," the diagnostician told me as if I didn't already know that.

It had actually been three days, but who was counting? I hadn't been feeling well for a while now. The crushing pain on my sternum at times, as well as the dizziness, fluttering of my heart, my shortness of breath and constant fatigue had become progressively worse since I had first noticed them. Now there were bouts of nausea and vomiting as well. The nausea, I knew, could have been a symptom of gastritis from all of the alcohol I had been consuming. There was something deep inside of me—call it the survival instinct—that kept telling me that I wasn't just suffering from anxiety and depression; I was, in fact, slowly dying but I didn't want to acknowledge that. I didn't care if I was dying or not at that point but I didn't like dwelling on the subject. 'Ignorance is Bliss' was my new motto.

"I needed some 'me' time," I told the older man fearlessly. "Cuddy's been a bitch lately and if I had tried to take time off through official channels she would have blocked me. I'm surprised you even noticed that a pest like me was missing."

I reached for my glass of scotch and managed to down half of it before House snatched the glass out of my hand and set it out of my reach as well.

"You've had enough," House informed me sternly. "Is this what you've been doing for two days straight?"

"Three days straight," I corrected him, nodding, "when I haven't been unconscious, passed out. Just me and my new best friends. And you know what else? It's been every night and all weekend every weekend for weeks and weeks. Glad to see you notice my spiral into hell, there, House."

I tried to get up but the spinning room around me had other ideas and I lost my balance and fell to the floor. I didn't feel any pain even though I had hit my face against the coffee table on my way down and had cut myself along my left cheekbone. House was at my side immediately, or so it seemed to me. He painfully sat on the floor beside me.

"Sit still," he told me quietly when I tried to sit up. "Let me check this." He was referring to the cut. He palpated the area around the wound, likely checking to see if I had cracked the bone. I simply stared up at him, enjoying the closeness of him to me and his touch.

"I don't think you'll need stitches," he told me, helping me sit and lean against the sofa. "I'll be right back," he told me and then winced as he rose to his full height and limped away. In the short time that he was gone I inched over to where he had put my glass and the pill bottles. I grabbed the Valium and dumped two more into my hand; the fluttering and shortness of breath was back, and I interpreted it as my anxiety returning. Just as I was washing the pills down with the scotch he returned carrying a damp face cloth.

"Goddamnit, Wilson!" he shouted, grabbing the booze and pills away from me again and dropping the face cloth into my lap. "What the hell are you trying to do—kill yourself?"

I looked up at him slowly and shrugged. "Maybe," I answered breathlessly and put the damp cloth against my cheekbone. He stared at me, obviously not expecting me to say that. I managed to get up to my feet using the sofa and coffee table for help as he took the booze and pills to the kitchen. I was standing but I was a sapling in a strong wind, swaying from side to side precariously. I staggered to my bedroom, running into furniture and walls every other step. I was really having trouble breathing now.

House appeared beside me and put his left arm around his waist to steady me as his kept himself relatively balanced using his cane. He helped me to my bed and sat me down on the edge. He leaned his cane against a wall and began to remove my shoes and socks for me. I couldn't hold myself up straight and fell forward. He caught me from going ass over tea kettle onto the floor. I was really out of it now. I faintly remembered House laying me back against the mattress and carefully removing my clothes down to my undershirt and boxers, then lifting my legs onto the bed. He covered me with a blanket and then went to the other side, sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard.

House sat there looking down at me pensively, his eyes sad again.

"Do you," I whispered, "ever look at me and think that I'm good looking? 'Cause I look at you all the time and think that you're sexy. In fact, there are days when you look so handsome that I just want to fuck you…"

"Wilson," House said quietly, not looking me in the eye. "Try to go to sleep. You're not making any sense right now."

I shook my head. "It's true," I told him. "I've always loved you, you know. I want you…but you only want Cuddy. You've stopped caring about me now that you have Cuddy. You don't need me anymore…"

My words drifted off as my eyes fluttered closed. Just before I lost consciousness I thought I heard him say something to me.

"Wilson, I never stopped."

When I woke up an indeterminate amount of time later I looked over to where House had sat before I had passed out. As I had expected, he was gone.

**(TBC)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: ****Broken hearted Me **(Part 2 of 3)

**Author: ****pgrabia**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Genre(s): **AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!House, Pre-Slash, Romance

**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy / House-Wilson preslash, mention of House/Cuddy established relationship.

**Word Count: **3598

**Warnings: ****Spoilers** for all Seasons and episodes up to Season 7 episode 11 "Family Medicine".

**Rating: **NC-17(M)

**Author's Notes:** Written for the We 'Heart' Wilson challenge at sick_Wilson on LJ. Prompt was the word "heart".

**I lied! I thought I'd be able to finish this in two parts but I didn't want the parts to get too long, so I'm going to have to break it into three—but that's it. It's already written so I know that!**

**Broken-Hearted Me**

**Part Two**

One month Before:

House hadn't said a word about what had happened or what I had told him in my drunken state. In fact, he had avoided even seeing me at all. He ate lunch in Cuddy's office with her everyday and hid around the hospital where I normally wouldn't think to look for him. I was so humiliated that I made no attempt to find him. I spent most of my time in my office, hiding from the world, only coming out long enough to do patient rounds, perform procedures, or use the men's room. House had been busy chasing zebras that stood two inches from his face thanks to Cuddy's insistence that he take more cases whether or not they best utilized his genius. He didn't argue with her on it and from hearing members of his team talk they were getting fed up with their boss becoming modeling clay in the Dean's hands. They came to my office as a group (with the exception of Masters) and suggested that I talk to House about it; I told them that I was the last person he'd listen to these days, but didn't go into details with them.

Nothing had changed much in my life. No, that's not true. Things were changing, but for the worse, not the better. I was drinking heavier than ever, popping Valium like Tic-Tacs and dragging myself to work with huge hangovers every morning. Sometimes I went to a bar immediately after work and drank until I was kicked out, sometimes I went home and did the same until I passed out. I was barely eating and throwing up any time of the day, the vomit usually streaked with blood. One morning I woke up with a cut lip that was still oozing blood, a purple bruise on my right temple and bruising all over my body but I had no idea what had happened to me. Obviously my drinking had reached the point where I was having black-out episodes where I was doing something but I had no idea what the next day. I came to work after having only had three or four hours sleep after these binges, still half-drunk. I knew I couldn't go on much longer like this, but I had given up caring.

My symptoms continued to worsen as well. I was beginning to accept the fact that anxiety was probably not the cause of them; I suspected that something was wrong with my heart. I was over forty, at the top of my safe Body-Mass Index, drinking hard with a family history of heart attack (my father). It was likely only a matter of time before I had an attack and never woke up. However, I didn't see a doctor or do anything else about it. I simply didn't care.

On one particular afternoon House called Brown for an oncology consult, avoiding me even where our jobs were concerned. I tried not to be affected by that but I couldn't. It was simply more proof that I had destroyed our friendship completely by telling him how I felt about him. Brown, however, was performing a biopsy at the time and Williams was leading rounds with the residents that day. By process of elimination, I was up to bat.

I felt like shit but I dragged myself to the Differential room where House and his team were discussing their most recent case. When I entered the room I noticed that House was wearing a lab coat over black dress pants and Italian leather dress shoes; I couldn't help but marvel at how whipped he had become. House turned around from the white board and upon seeing me, frowned.

"I called for Brown," he told me, his voice hard. His team sat in tense silence, watching our exchange intently. "Not _you_."

I sighed silently and swallowed hard. "Brown's in surgery. I'm the only one available. Do you need the consult or not?"

We stared each other down until Foreman, impatient, picked up the X-ray and MRI films and slid the file folder across the table to me. I reluctantly looked away, grabbed the folder and walked to the light box on the wall. Clipping up the films and turning on the light I studied the images, blinking a few times when my vision became fuzzy. I was finding it hard to breathe, nothing new.

"Well?" House snapped, "is it cancer or not?"

I shook my head no, avoiding looking at him. Dizziness was overwhelming me and I swayed slightly, sticking out a hand to plant it against the wall for stability, trying to act casually, as if I was leaning against the wall to be cool.

"Definitely aggressive chordoma," I said with certainty. "Not malignant."

"How can you be certain if you can't even see straight?" House asked me snidely; he obviously had seen my blinking. _Of course_, I growled silently, _he notices that but not the fact that my heart is breaking._

I kept my cool. "I can see just fine," I told the diagnostician. "Thanks for your concern."

Taking as deep a breath as I could I focused on the door, tried to forget that it was moving, and headed for it. Halfway there lightheadedness hit and everything went a fuzzy white around me; all I could hear was static white noise. It passed quickly enough but when it did I found Chase on his feet next to me, a steadying hand on my forearm. He was staring at me concernedly, as was the rest of the team. I had my back to House so I didn't see his reaction except for the fact that he didn't say anything.

"Are you alright?" the intensivist asked me quietly.

I wasn't alright, but I didn't want him or anyone else to know it. I forced a smile on my face and nodded.

"I'm fine…I just moved a little too quickly for my blood pressure to catch up," I assured him. Reluctantly he nodded and released my arm. That's when the sudden urge to vomit hit. I half-ran out of the office and toward the men's room down the corridor. I barely made it into the nearest stall before I brought up lunch. Most of it hit the bowl but not all, and it was half-blood. I kept heaving until there was nothing to bring up but bile, stomach acid, and more blood. I groaned audibly and was glad that the bathroom had been empty when I came in. I was sweating, breathing hard, cringing from the crushing pain in my chest and wishing that whatever it was that was wrong with me would just take me now.

A hand came to rest on one of my shoulders and I turned my head in shame. It was Chase.

"You're _not_ alright," he told me bluntly. "People who are alright don't nearly fate then vomit up blood."

I didn't respond, couldn't respond. He helped me to my feet without my asking which was a good thing because I didn't think I had the strength to do it myself. I was trying hard to suck in air but couldn't seem to fill my lungs. My heart flutter was going wild and I wished the room would stop bobbing and weaving. I flushed the toilet.

The younger doctor helped me to the counter and turned on the water at the sink. I leaned against the counter and began to splash water onto my face to wash away the vomit and try to revive myself a bit. I cupped some of the water with my hands into my mouth to rinse it out and get rid of the puke taste.

There was no way I could go on lying to myself. There was definitely something seriously wrong with me that went beyond stress-induced anxiety and gastritis.

With a trembling hand I turned off the water taps and braced myself using my arms on the counter. Chase handed me some paper towel from the dispenser so I could dry myself off. I took it with what I hoped was a thankful smile and began to pat dry my face with it.

"It's just anxiety," I told him weakly but we both knew it was a lie. "Stress-induced. It's been a problem for a while. Nothing that a tropical vacation wouldn't cure."

"Wilson, neither one of us is an idiot," Chase responded. "You need to be examined, have tests run. Your pallor is awful, you're in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, vomiting blood, trembling, lightheaded…it's time to come clean and get this checked out."

"Chase," I began to object but he wouldn't listen to any of it.

"I know you don't want it to become gossip or for House to know," he told me. "I know that he's been acting like a prick lately. I'll examine you, that way I can't gossip about it." The intensivist offered a small smile before continuing. "I'll get away this afternoon. Meet me in the clinic, Exam room three at five."

"Chase!"

Neither one of us had heard House enter the room or knew how long he'd been standing there. I cursed silently. The man had three legs but could still sneak up on a person as stealthily as a cat.

"Forget about the lush and get back to the differential room," the diagnostician commanded sharply, his penetrating gaze moving between us as if trying to assess the situation. "All he needs is a nip from the bottle he drank his last meal from. Go. _Now_."

House's words and callous disregard for my feelings were like a knife being stabbed into my chest but I refused to let him know it. Chase glared at his boss angrily.

"He's sick, can't you see that?" my would-be defender snapped back.

"Chase," I said weakly from behind him, "Go, I'm not worth getting fired over."

"Like hell—" he responded , looking at me but I shook my head resolutely.

"Go."

He hesitated, glared at House and then reluctantly left the room, leaving House and I alone, staring at each other.

"You and Chase?" he said at last, smirking mirthlessly. "Really? I would have thought you would have gone more for Taub—he's a needy Jew right now—right up your alley and you both have no idea how to be faithful to a wife."

I wasn't going to let his taunts distract me. I knew he was thinking that Chase and I were meeting later for sex by what he'd said. I was about to correct him when a voice in the back of my mind told me to stop. I didn't owe him any explanations for anything anymore.

I lifted my chin defiantly. "What I do and with whom is none of your fucking business," I told him, my voice quavering slightly. Taking a deep breath, I walked slowly and carefully toward the door, having to pass him on my way out. As I did he grabbed my forearm tightly, stopping me.

"Oww!" I protested angrily. "Get your hands off of me!"

House stared me in the eye. "I thought you _wanted_ my hands on you," he retorted. There was something that flashed momentarily across his eyes when he said that and I couldn't tell if it was anger or jealousy. "I shouldn't be so surprised you're fucking Chase; you're both boozing sluts. Don't worry, I won't tell Cuddy about your fouling up of her hospital's bathroom or your planned rendezvous with lover boy."

"How gracious of you!" I spat, feeling like I was going to collapse any moment. "So you haven't completely become her slave boy."

A flame lit in House's eyes and he grabbed my chin with his other hand bruisingly, searching my face for something, but I didn't know what. For a brief second, from the way he kept looking back to my lips, I thought he was going to kiss me, but of course he didn't. Instead he sighed and let go of my face.

"You need help, Wilson," he murmured, his voice growly. "Get it quick."

I glared back at him a moment longer and then summoned all the strength I had to leave the men's room. When I was back in my office with the door shut and locked behind me I went to the sofa and collapsed onto it, lying down on my back. I felt like crying, yelling and throwing a few things but I simply didn't have the strength. So, I passed out instead.

I woke at five-fifteen when I heard someone knocking on my office door. I forced myself up off of my sofa and answered the door. Chase stood there looking at me expectantly. I realized I'd slept through the time I was supposed to meet him in the clinic.

"Uh, sorry," I told him, rubbing my eyes sleepily. "I passed out on my sofa and slept too long."

He nodded understandingly. "I'll escort you downstairs in case another bout of lightheadedness or dizziness strikes."

I sighed and nodded. He walked in step with me to the clinic, staying close enough to look inconspicuous but close enough to catch me if I collapsed. The clinic was almost empty when we got there; only two elderly patients waited to be seen. Chase gave the nurse at the desk a knowing look and she simply nodded in response. We went straight to exam room three.

"Hop up on the table," the intensivist told me with a smile. "If you're a good boy I'll give you a lolly-pop."

I smirked at that and sighed. "I have to warn you about something," I told him, feeling foolish. "After you left the men's room House accused you and I of meeting here to…play doctor. He heard you mention the clinic and the time but not what came before. I think he was serious. The problem is…I was so angry at him that I didn't correct him. I told him it was none of his business and that's all. I'm sorry."

At first Chase looked shocked, but then he slowly smiled and nodded. "That explains all of the gay jokes he was telling after that. It's alright, Wilson. Let him think what he wants. He's being a total asshole so he deserves to end up with egg on his face."

I was both surprised and relieved by his reaction.

Chase began the examination by taking a recent history and the symptoms I'd been experiencing.

"Any history of heart disease in yourself or family?"

"My father had a mild heart attack but suffered very little damage," I answered. "He had a cardiac thrombectomy. Other than that, not that I know of. I've never had problems in the past."

"Well, you _are_ in your mid-forties and have a high stress job," Chase pointed out. I knew that quite well and that was part of the reason I'd been denying that the problem was with my heart.

"What about diabetes or thyroid disease?" was the younger doctor's next question.

Shaking my head I said, "No for both sides of my family."

"Heart valve issues?"

"No," I sighed. I knew what was coming up next and was dreading it.

Chase looked me in the eye and asked me carefully, pointedly, "What about alcoholism?"

I looked away from him, preferring to stare at the door knob across the room instead.

"My mother's father was what you would call a 'high-functioning' alcoholic," I replied. "He never missed a day of work and worked at the same place for forty-one years; however, as soon as the workday was over he became a barfly until completely loaded and then somehow drove himself home without hurting himself or, more importantly, anybody else."

"Wilson," Chase began but I cut him off, still refusing to look at him.

"Am I an alcoholic?" I asked for him. "That was your next question, right? Jesus, Chase. I know what I'm doing and I'm the one in control of when I drink and how much."

"But you don't deny drinking very heavily lately, right?" the intensivist asked me. "Because it's been obvious for a while now to pretty much anyone who makes contact with you during the day that you're perpetually hungover. Just between you and me, I personally have seen you come into work in the morning still reeking of alcohol and under the influence. I never said anything and I should have, for the sakes of your patients and you. You don't have control over it, no matter what you think, or else you would never show up for work drunk. You and I both know it. I'm not trying to lecture you or tell you how to live, but I see you flushing your life and career down the toilet and it's time somebody confronted you. I watched my mother drink herself to death, so I know the signs. There's help, but you have to admit that there's a problem first."

I met his eyes at last and nodded, still not at that place yet. "Point taken," I told him stiffly. Chase sighed and then went on with the examination.

He donned a stethoscope and began to listen to my heart and lungs. Though he did a good job at hiding most of his reactions, I did notice a hint of a frown. My heart was fluttering and there was no way he didn't hear it.

"You have a definite arrhythmia," he told me, setting the stethoscope aside. "I think I heard a murmur as well."

He continued with the rest of the exam, checking my eyes, ears, nose and throat as well as testing my reflexes, feeling my lymph nodes and palpating my belly. I nearly cried when he touched my upper abdomen.

"Not surprised that you have pain there," the Australian doctor told me. "I'm thinking gastritis from the alcohol and the strain on your stomach and esophagus due to your vomiting, but I think it should be scoped to be certain. I want to run some blood and urine work on you as well as schedule you for an upper GI scope, ECG, and chest and abdomen X-Rays. Base on what comes back from those we can determine what else will have to be done—"

"No." I told him decisively. There was no way I was going to be undergoing a lot of tests in this hospital. I didn't want anyone here to know that I was ill. It was bad enough Chase knew what he did. At one time in my life I would have worried about House finding out and obsessing over me but I wasn't concerned about that anymore. He didn't want to be in the same room with me so there was no way he'd even give a damn if I was sick or not. I didn't want Cuddy to know and start thinking about ways in which she could replace me.

"No to which part?" Chase asked me curiously.

"No to any tests. No. I let you examine me, but I refuse to go any further than that here and I'm not interested in going to a strange hospital, either," I told him firmly. "Tell me what you suspect it is and then let it go."

Chase regarded me like I had gone insane. "Wilson, you could be dangerously ill. We're talking about your heart!"

"I know," I told him calmly. "I also know I have the right to refuse further testing and treatment and that's exactly what I'm doing. So tell me what you suspect and then I'll be on my way. Don't try to change my mind because you can't."

For a moment I thought Chase might try to restrain me somehow and prevent me from leaving the hospital until I was properly diagnosed and treated. After all, he _was_ House's pupil. To my relief he didn't. He simply shook his head in dismay and disapproval.

"I suspect some form of cardiomyopathy, probably dilated and triggered by your alcohol abuse," he told me quietly. "But I can't be certain until you're tested properly. If you leave here today and do nothing about your problem, you could suffer congestive heart failure at any time. If that happens when you're at home alone, you won't have time to call for help. You need to reconsider your decision."

I shook my head. "No. I won't. Make certain to put into my chart that I'm refusing testing and treatment AMA to cover your ass. I appreciate your concern—I do—but I simply…can't."

"That's suicide!" Chase insisted. "You know that don't you?"

"It's my choice, Chase," I answered. "Remember, you can't say a word about this to anyone without violating my privacy rights."

With that I walked out of the exam room and headed for my office to pick up my jacket and briefcase before leaving for the day. When the elevator arrived the doors opened to expose House standing in the car alone. As I went to step inside Chase came running up behind me.

"Wilson, wait, you forgot your—" his voice trailed off once he saw House standing there glaring at him with hostile eyes. "—tie." He looked at me meaningfully, handing it to me.

"Thanks," I told him, faking a smile, feeling very self-conscious.

He leaned toward me and murmured, "Please reconsider."

I said nothing in response, frowning at him and boarding the elevator. Chase nodded and walked away. I was waiting for House to step off but he didn't. The doors slid shut and he punched the button for the fourth floor. I sighed, knowing that he had an agenda in what he was doing.

"You turned Chase down?" he said to me at last. Surprisingly I didn't hear any sarcasm.

I looked at him blankly for a moment until it dawned on me what he meant. He must have heard Chase tell me to reconsider and thought that he meant he wanted me to reconsider having sex…

Oh, God, this was too good to let go. House really thought that there was something sexual going on between Chase and me. I found myself resenting that immensely. He didn't give a damn about me yet he still had to be in control of who I saw and what I did. Damn it! I had hoped over the years that his reaction to my ex-wives and girlfriends was, in part, due to jealousy. I was wrong. It was just him and his sick need to control me.

"Yes," I asked succinctly, staring at the door instead of him. Chase was right. Let him think what he wanted. "He was pushing me to go further than I'm ready for. I have a feeling he won't let it go."

"I thought…it was a joke…" House said softly. There was a quality to his voice I didn't recognize.

"It's really none of your business," I told him, hardening my voice. My chest felt like an elephant was stamping on it and my heart went fluttering again. Breathlessly I went on to say, "You had your chance to make it your business. Instead you chose to treat me like shit."

The elevator door opened on the fourth floor and I stepped off, fighting the dizziness again as I headed to my office. I heard House's syncopated footsteps behind me.

"Wilson," he called to me but I didn't bother looking back.

One Day Before:

I reluctantly reported to Cuddy's office as requested. She was signing supply request forms when I knocked on her door. She waved for me to come in. I took a couple of steps into her office and stopped, even though I felt so shitty that I stared at her sofa longingly. She looked up from her paperwork and set it aside. Grey eyes took me in. Her eyebrows knitted together and I didn't know if it was due to concern or anger.

I knew I looked bad. Compared to the way I normally dressed and groomed myself I was practically disheveled in my wrinkled dress shirt that I was wearing a second time before having it cleaned, green tie spotted with chocolate, I think and my hair less that meticulously combed and blow-dried. I had begun to retain water and the edema was evident in my face, hands and feet, the rings under my eyes were black, and I looked and felt completely exhausted.

"Sit down, Wilson, before you fall down," Cuddy told me, indicating the sofa.

I didn't argue, sitting down with a sigh. She came from her desk and sat down at the other end of the sofa, turned to face me.

"Is this concerning the notice I filed with HR?" I asked her, startled by how breathless I sounded.

The Dean of Medicine nodded. "Indefinite medical leave. I was surprised when it hit my desk. I've noticed that you've been appearing exhausted and pale. I also know that you've been drinking heavily and coming to work hungover. I was wondering if they were related."

There was no law that said I had to discuss with her what I was taking medical leave for, and I knew that she would tell House whatever I told her, ethics be damned. She'd shown than she only believed in ethics when it was convenient for her.

"I don't feel like discussing it," I told her plainly. "I have medical issues and I don't…know when or even if I'll be back."

"If?" she echoed. I had to admit that she looked genuinely concerned, which surprised me. I would have thought she'd be pleased to get rid of a 'problem' doctor she wasn't in love with.

I nodded solemnly. "Chances are…I'll only get worse, not better," I said honestly. "I can't guarantee you that I'll be coming back in, say, two weeks if I don't know that for certain."

Her face had paled somewhat. "Wilson we've been friends for a long time. We've had our differences, but I'd still like to think that we're friends. I'm very worried about you. Are you seriously ill?"

I sighed internally. I didn't want to get into this with her, but I did feel a little guilty for concerning her like this. Torn over whether or not to tell her what Chase had said I was silent for a few moments.

"What 's wrong with me will more than likely end up killing me," I admitted quietly.

"What is it?" she demanded, reaching out and taking my hand. "Are you sure? Have you gotten a second opinion? Does House know?"

I shook my head. I'd said too much already. "I can't tell you, I'm as sure as I need to be, and no, House doesn't know. I want it to remain that way. You cannot breathe a word of this to him. I mean it."

"You can't honestly expect me to keep something like this from him?" she asked him incredulously. "When you don't show up for work tomorrow morning or the morning after that he'll know that something is up."

I knew that he wouldn't give a damn but I didn't bother arguing with her. I was too tired.

"So, are you going to approve it?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from House. Talking about him—thinking about him—was too painful for me to deal with right now.

She looked frustrated and I knew she wanted to convince me to tell her what was wrong and to give her permission to get House involved. I had mixed feelings about her reaction. I wanted to stay angry and resentful of her, but she was making it difficult to do that.

"Yes," she answered with a sigh, shrugging. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help you?"

I nodded and smiled sadly. "I'm positive. The best thing you can do is keep this conversation strictly between the two of us." I got up to leave when she grabbed my hand again. I looked down, raising an eyebrow.

"At least tell me what it is," she urged. "It's going to drive me crazy not knowing."

I regarded her carefully for a moment and then gave in. _What the hell?_ I figured. It really didn't make much difference anyway.

"Acute dilated cardiomyopathy," I told her. She looked at me with a confused expression.

"But that's treatable," she told me. "We could admit you right now. I'll get ahold of Danvers in cardiology—"

"No," I told her. "You won't. Gotta go." I gently extricated my hand from her and headed for the door when it happened. My body betrayed my wishes. The pain in my chest nearly knocked me out from that alone. I grabbed my chest and gasped, unable to breathe anymore than that. My legs turned to cooked spaghetti and I felt myself fall to the floor. It was like everything was slowing down to one quarter speed. I actually knew the exact moment that my heart stopped. Cuddy was at my side, rolling me onto my back and saying my name. She looked terrified for a moment or two before snapping into professional mode. My eyes didn't blink, I wasn't breathing, and I lost all sensation of touch. Everything seemed to be coming at me from the end of a long tunnel and I was retreating away from it.

Then, in the blink of an eye, I was standing next to my body, outside of myself watching what was happening as an outside observer. Cuddy had gone to her door and called the code at the clinic nurses before returning to me and beginning CPR. A team from the clinic arrived with the crash cart and behind them House, who apparently had been working in the clinic at the time, marched into the room and took over. He glared at Cuddy and demanded to know what had happened. She told him about our discussion and the cardiomyopathy. He cursed me for being an idiot. His face was a stony mask as he tried to revive me, tore my shirt open and grabbed the paddles for the defibrillator as a nurse squirted conductive gel onto my bare chest. I watched as House touched the paddles to my body and said body convulsed with the electricity passing through it. There was no response. He called for epinephrine; Cuddy took the syringe from a nurse and injected it herself. My heart was still unresponsive. House tried again, his façade quickly fading. I saw terror touch his features as he yelled at everybody around him.

I was dying, I realized.

"You're not dying. You're dead," she said from behind me. It couldn't be…but it was. She came to stand beside me, glowing brightly and resplendently. She was as beautiful as I remembered. Amber put an arm around my waist and turned me away from the futile attempts to save me. We began walking towards a light. "James, we need to talk," she told me.

**(TBC…)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: ****Broken hearted Me **(Part 3 of 3)

**Author: ****pgrabia**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Genre(s): **AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sick!House, Pre-Slash/slash, Romance

**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy / House-Wilson preslash/slash, mention of House/Cuddy established relationship.

**Word Count: **5952

**Warnings: ****Spoilers** for all Seasons and episodes up to Season 7 episode 11 "Family Medicine".

**Rating: **NC-17(M)

**Author's Notes:** Written for the We 'Heart' Wilson challenge at sick_Wilson on LJ. Prompt was the word "heart".

**Here's the last installment! It was difficult to decide where to end so I did my best. In this last part will be a passage that is spoken by Amber to Wilson as she summarizes his life. Recently I picked up at my local bookstore ****House M.D.: The Official Guide to the Hit Medical Drama.**** by Ian Jackman. (Harper-Collins, 2010) which is really good read and there is one part where the author interviews Robert Sean Leonard on his thoughts of who Dr. James Wilson, the character, is and what motivates the character through the seasons. The insights I have Amber giving Wilson in my fic are actually a close paraphrase of RSL's answers to the questions posed to him in the book as well as a little insight from David Shore who for the most part agrees with RSL's assessment. I figured, who would understand Wilson better than these two men? Enjoy, and thank you for reading!**

**Broken-Hearted Me**

**Part Two**

I looked at Amber with amazement and as good as it was to see her again the only person I could think about just then was House kneeling next to my dead body, trying desperately to bring me back.

"I'm really dead?" I asked her, wide-eyed.

She smiled knowingly, such a pretty smile. "Well, mostly. This is the way-station; it takes on many forms depending on who has just arrived. We're walking towards physical death and the beginning of What Is Next right now."

"So there _is_ an afterlife?" I asked even though I was talking to the woman that had died in my arms almost three years before. "House was wrong?"

Amber rolled her eyes at that. "House knows very well that there's an afterlife. He's been in the way-station three times that I'm aware of. The first was during the infarction and the second was when the idiot stuck that knife into the power socket to see if there was an afterlife."

I was surprised by that. "I asked him," I told her, "and he told me he saw nothing."

Shaking her head, Amber looked at me with affectionate exasperation. "And you believed him? He saw a lot, but he wasn't about to admit it because if he had he would have to rethink just about everything he believes. It would be a paradigm change of such proportions that he would go crazy with it. Denial is a much easier road to walk, at first anyway. But you would know something about that yourself, wouldn't you James?"

I stopped walking. "You know about that?" I asked her, feeling a little embarrassed and ashamed.

"That you were in love with House when we were together?" she asked to clarify and then nodded her golden head. "I suspected it while still alive which is why I argued with House about custody over your time. I was afraid you would decide that you would leave me for him. After I moved on to this ," she gestured to the light at the end of the tunnel, "someone met me and explained things to me like I'm doing right now with you."

I didn't know what to think about that. She knew, yet she wasn't angry with me. I wondered if anger no longer existed at the end of the tunnel.

"I did love you, Amber," I told her earnestly. "I really did."

A smile lit her already brilliant face and she put a hand on my cheek. "I know. I've always known. It's possible to love more than one person at a time. That's what makes life a challenge sometimes."

"You said that House was here three times," I recalled, curious. "When was the third time?"

Amber's smile faded a little, and I saw compassion fill her eyes. "When things went wrong with the DBT," she answered.

That hit me like a kick to the gut. I had known when I asked that it was a dangerous procedure that could, especially with the skull fracture he'd suffered from the crash, kill him. He'd seized during the procedure and his heart had stopped briefly but he'd been resuscitated and survived. Afterward I had felt so guilty for asking him to risk his life like that I could barely stand to look at him lying in ICU. Here was proof positive that I had killed House, even if it had been for only a few seconds.

"Hey!" she chastised me, frowning. It was like she could read my mind and then I realized that perhaps she could. "Stop with the guilt. It happened, it's over and he's still alive. He didn't have to agree to go ahead with the procedure. He agreed to do it because he loves you."

"He loves me?" I asked questioningly, stunned b y her revelation. Amber rolled her eyes at me.

"He's been in love with you for years, James. Why else do you think he was willing to die to save his rival—because more than the satisfaction of having you for himself, he wanted you to be happy."

I couldn't believe it. He loved me. He was with Cuddy. It didn't make sense.

"James," Amber told me, "how was he supposed to know that you loved him after you kicked him out so you could live with Sam? He was so hurt by that. He figured you would never love him more than platonically; he was crushed. The night after the crane disaster, he considered killing himself. He found an old stash of Vicodin and was about to take it when Cuddy showed up. He was in love with you, but he desperately didn't want to be alone anymore and she showed up telling him that she wanted him."

Overwhelmed with guilt and regret I looked back towards life and the image, frozen in time, of House and Cuddy over my body trying to get my heart started again. The expression of desperation and fear on House's face twisted a knife in my heart.

"What will happen with him?" I asked, murmuring.

"He'll go on living," she answered evenly, "but he won't want to. He'll lash out at Cuddy for controlling his time; she'll grow defensive and ask him who he loved more. House will tell her the truth and that will be the end of their relationship. He'll stop to buy black market Vicodin from a guy he knows and overdose. Things go downhill from there."

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard at that. If only I hadn't drank so much, if I had listened to Chase… Because I had chosen not to seek treatment feeling sorry for myself and wanting to die, I had done this to the one I was in love with. In that moment I loathed myself more that I had ever loathed anyone or anything in my life.

"If onlies do nothing but feed guilt, James," Amber told me, "and you've got enough of that for two lifetimes. Now come. I have a lot to tell you.'

As much as I loved seeing and hearing her again, I didn't want to follow her. I shook my head. "No. I want to go back."

"I don't even know if that's possible at this stage," she warned me.

"But if it is, what happens?" I demanded, clinging to the single spark of hope. She leveled a serious look on me.

"Well, that all depends on you," she answered. "The future is never set. There are an infinite number of possible outcomes dependent in part to what you choose to do when you get back, if you get to go back. If you could have anything happen that you want, what would it be?"

That was an easy question to answer. "I want House to be happy," I told her simply. She frowned slightly.

"Even if that means you're not?" she questioned me. "You'd have another forty plus years ahead of you, you know. That's a long time to live unhappily."

"Whether or not I'm happy with my situation—any situation—is up to me. If I decide to be happy, I will be, somehow," I insisted, seeing the irony of what I had just said in relation to the way I'd been living up to the moment of my death. "All that's important to me is House's happiness. I lost track of that somehow."

A smile warmed Amber's face and she embraced me. "I know, James. And you're right. Your happiness _is_ up to you and the decisions you make, the attitudes you keep." She drew away and held me at arm's distance, appraising me thoughtfully. "I need to let you know something."

I stood looking at her expectantly.

"You've lived your life in quiet desperation," she told me gently. "It's like you've been walking down the road of your existence wanting to reach a solid destination but you have it in the back of your mind that you never will. There are a couple of miles you're never going to travel because you're afraid of what you'd find and who you'd be if you did. Then you'll die, never having reached your goal. You've helped others reach theirs, but you won't do yourself the same favor.

"That's the difference between you and House: he's travelled them and will continue to do so, even if you don't go back. He's gotten hurt and a lot of other people have gotten hurt and others even helped, but he travels it and it's that aspect of him that attracts you the most. You wish you were more like him…and there are aspects about you that he envies. You'll try to do everything right and make everyone happy but you'll never reach the destination doing that—you'll keep walking in circles until it's over and you'll never find happiness for yourself. In the long run, you'll hurt a lot of people doing that, even more than House has, including yourself."

I listened in rapt fascination as she spelled out for me in a few words the struggle of my heart, mind and soul of my entire life. She knew me better than I knew myself; so many questions had just been answered and many new ones created to replace them. Part of me wanted to stay longer to hear all of it, but the much bigger part of me wanted to go back and use what I did know to change myself. I wanted to really live.

"How do I change that?" I asked, desperate to know.

Her grin broadened. "By doing what you want and need to do, not always what you think you ought. By telling yourself you deserve to walk those two miles and then doing it, no matter what you'll find along the way. You can't make everybody happy, James, and it's not your responsibility to do so. The only person you can ever be certain of making happy is yourself, if you're willing. Does that mean you think only about yourself and what's good for you whatever the consequences may be to others? Of course not! But how can you love and care for others properly if you never take the time to love and care for yourself?"

She was right, she was absolutely right…but could I do it? Could I change my pattern if I got a second chance? House said that people didn't change but I didn't want that to be true for me.

"You can do it," she assured me. "You just need to decide."

I nodded, my mind spinning with all of the revelations but none of them meant much if I couldn't go back.

"How do I know if I can even go back now?" I asked her.

"I guess, by trying," was Amber's answer, said with a shrug. "Start walking back and don't stop. If you're allowed to go back, you will."

This time I hugged her. She felt so good.

"I'm going to miss you," I told her, tearing up.

"Me, too," she told me, "but take heart. You can't live forever, and I've never heard of anyone being able to die and go right back in perpetuity and I'll still be here when you return for good."

I broke the hug, nodding. Taking a deep breath, I turned around and decided that nothing was going to stop me from going back to my life. I began to walk determinedly. I wanted to look back but I wouldn't allow myself to. I was going to walk those two goddamned miles if it killed me again to do so. That didn't make much sense, I knew, but I knew what I meant. As I came closer to the tableau of House and Cuddy trying to save me I grew more and more confident. I walked right back into the frozen tableau, right up to my body until I touched it. Everything shifted…

…Then I took in a lungful of air and opened my eyes, looking up into the faces of my two friends.

"He's back!" I heard someone say triumphantly, "Steady heartbeat."

There was a general sigh of relief from those present. House's face went from terrified to relieved in an instant. A grin broke out on his face before he managed to hide it again from everyone. Cuddy exhaled explosively as if releasing a breath she had been holding for a long time. A smile spread across her face from ear to ear and she didn't seem to care who saw it. I wanted to smile but I couldn't—I was too tired. My eyes returned to House's face. The expression in his eyes when they met mine said it all. I allowed myself to slip into sweet oblivion.

The Day it Began…anew:

After rushing me to the emergency room where my vitals were stabilized Dr Laura Danvers, the chief of cardiology, was called in. House, after the experience with Arlene and then the resuscitation of me, knew that as much as he wanted to be involved in my treatment plan he couldn't be my primary. It was a sign that he was learning his limits and accepting them. I was put immediately on pharmaceutical therapy but after looking at the results of the MRI, echocardiogram and radionuclide ventriculogram (RV) as well as the initial and twelve hour lab results of the starting of pharmaceuticals she believed that my real hope of surviving more than five to ten years was the implantations of a biventricular pacemaker and an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD) in my upper chest combined with medication. I survived the surgery with no complications. My chances of living fifteen years or more increased significantly. My life would change radically from that point on, but at least I was alive.

The pacemaker would make both ventricles of my heart pump at the same time, thus increasing the volume of blood pumped with each heartbeat; the ICD would shock or defibrillate my heart automatically should it decide to fail completely again. I would also be taking ACE inhibitors, beta-blockers, spironolactone, a diuretic, and amiodarone, an antiarrhythmic likely for the rest of my life. (Much later House would tease me by calling me Dr. Android and the _Bionic _Boy Wonder, but I digress).

I woke up to find myself lying in a dimly lit ICU cubicle with wires and tubes running in and out of me pretty much throughout my body. The steady sinus rhythm and strong heartbeat sound from the heart monitor was a comforting reminder that I was alive again. A nasal cannula fed me supplemental oxygen but otherwise I was breathing well enough on my own to be able to avoid intubation. I knew I had to be on a strong painkiller because I didn't feel pain from anything.

I was lying slightly inclined and House was seated on the edge of my bed, watching over me. He looked like he had been put through the ringer; exhaustion hung off of him like a wet, heavy wool blanket. The lines on his face appeared deeper. Something more had happened than just me, not that that wasn't enough to age him a decade or so. His eyes were pools of grief and regret.

His eyes lit up when I smiled weakly. I loved him so much and knowing what I did now, I refused to continue to wait for the perfect time or place to start walking those two miles. I was starting now.

However, before I could say anything he beat me to it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," House murmured. "Chase told me the truth. You wanted to die."

"I thought I did," I whispered, unable to summon up the strength to speak any longer than that, "but I was wrong, so I came back. You lied to me. There is more out there than oblivion."

House didn't say anything to that, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

"I'm sorry, too," I told him.

Nodding, House took one of my hands in both of his and after hesitating for a moment confessed to me, "Cuddy and I…are no more."

"Why?" I asked. I was glad to hear that, I won't lie, but I didn't want to take joy in something that meant pain for him

He smirked self-deprecatingly. "I think it had something to do with her walking in and finding me telling you that…" he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "I'm in love with you, and to come back to me."

"House," I began but he wouldn't let me finish.

"The thing is," the diagnostician told me, shrugging, "she told me that she knew all along. She's upset, hurt, angry…but I think that, given time, we might become friends again." He paused a moment, looking at me with a hint of fear. "You don't need to feel the same—"

"House, shut up," I told him, cutting him off in return. He recoiled slightly and frowned ever so slightly. This was it, the first step of those last two miles. "I'm in love with you too…and when I'm back on my feet, I'll show you in no uncertain terms, just exactly how much; but in the meantime, get your ass over here—your mouth is mine now."

One Year After:

Jax was pulling me along behind him as he tried to bite the Segway's wheels. Our three year old blue heeler, rescued from the dog pound, never gave up trying to lay claim to the spinning wheels. This was our daily habit and had been since I was given the permission by Dr. Danvers to start exercising more vigorously.

"House, for Pete's sake, will you slow that thing down? Jax is pulling my arm out of its socket!" I called after him in irritation.

The diagnostician called back to me, "Sorry, but getting that drooling flea trap was your idea, not mine. Danvers said you have to get and keep your heart rate in the target zone so I'm setting the pace. Can't have you slacking off and getting all flabby now, can we?"

"I'd like my partner to ride beside me, not eight feet ahead," I groused. "Kind of defeats the point of a romantic walk in the park."

"My idea of a romantic walk isn't having that mutt humping my leg the whole time," House retorted.

"But he _loves_ you," I told him, smiling slightly in amusement. "Besides, if I get too tired out now, _you_ won't be humping _me_ later."

House sighed dramatically and slowed down so Jax and I could catch up. I reeled in some of the leash so Jax had less opportunity to get funky with my lover's lower limbs. "Okay," he told me, "but he gets put outside when we're doing it. I won't have a repeat of last time—Little Greg didn't find it amusing."

Our last round of lovemaking had been disturbed at the worst possible moment by Jax scratching at the bottom of the other side of our bedroom door and howling every time House had. I had to admit, it was a little distracting.

"He thought you were suffering," I explained in defense of our mutt. "He was worried about you."

House threw me the dirtiest of looks which only amused me even more.

I was doing tremendously well, my cardiologist had told me; better than she'd ever seen one of her patients recover this soon after surgery. The pacemaker and ICV were working fine and all of my latest labs had come back great. I _felt_ great…better than I had in years, in fact. Danvers had explained to House and me that she believed I had always had a weaker wall of my heart, born that way, and I'd suffered from a very mild form of heart failure for most of my adult life. The stressors in my life like Amber's death, House's drug abuse, my job juggling administrative duties as well as a full patient load in a very stressful area of medicine the loss of Sam, House's mistake of a relationship with Cuddy, and my inability to say no and take care of myself properly instead of pouring everything I had into everyone else had put a great deal of strain on my heart. The heavy drinking had been the cherry on top, the last straw…well, you know what I mean. Part of my recovery and survival was going to mean making major changes to my attitude and lifestyle.

After I got out of the hospital I had known that I had a long road ahead of me but I was determined that I wasn't going to give up. I was still going to walk those two miles and get to my destination, no matter how long it took to get there and what challenges I had to face along the way.

As soon as I had been released from Princeton-Plainsboro House had driven me to Mayfield and had seen me off with passionate kisses, groping hands and a few tears—well, I had shed the tears, not him, but there had been moisture in his eyes. Even though I hadn't had a drop of alcohol for almost two months, both House and I had known that I wouldn't have been able to stay sober if I hadn't gotten some help first. Nolan had opened up a bed just for me and I had stayed there for eight weeks undergoing psychotherapy, group sessions and a lot of self-examination and honesty. I had figured out what all I wanted and needed in life, and what I needed to do to get it. I had known that I faced a lot of changes but I'd known that I was up for it. House had visited me every opportunity he'd had and occasionally we had played cards with some of the long-termers who had been there when House had been an impatient. Apparently he'd been well liked by everyone but the nursing staff—what a shocker. House even agreed to return to psychotherapy after having quit just before he and Cuddy had begun dating.

Once I had been discharged from Mayfield I continued outpatient psychotherapy while I'd made the changes I'd needed to. I sold the loft and House and I bought together a comfortably-sized bungalow about a half-mile away from the hospital so that I'd be closer for outpatient cardiac treatment and assessments and we'd be spared remembering the mistakes we'd made and the pain that had been inflicted there. Plus the bungalow would belong to both of us. We knew we had to focus on all the good things we still had going for us and the ones I knew were coming down the road.

I loved our new place. It had two bedrooms (one for guests which House had grumbled about at first), a giant gourmet kitchen, a great big deck to sit out on in warm summer evenings to read, or listen to music or just think, or have a BBQ and entertain friends. There was a solarium House had turned into his 'conservatory' for his piano and guitars. He'd come home one day to find a pipe wrench wrapped in a scarlet dress resting on the piano seat. It had come in surprisingly handy during role playing later that evening. There was also room for Jax—the three-year old Blue Heeler I had rescued from the animal shelter which House called 'mutt', 'Humper', and 'Flea bait'. He protested vehemently whenever I suggested that he secretly loved Jax but the truth was he was just as attached to him as I was.

I resigned as Chief of Oncology; the job was too stressful, gobbled up way too much of my time and no longer fulfilled me. I was required to significantly reduce my workload, especially for the first six months back to work. House and I left PPTH and opened a joint practice; we both maintained hospital privileges at Plainsboro but set our own work days and hours. I continued in oncology and House in diagnostic with the odd nephrology patient now and again to keep him busy and out of trouble (and camped out in my office most of the day). I went to work with a smile on my face and came home (usually) feeling like I'd actually made a difference without the hassle and politics that came with being a department head in a hospital setting. I still had to tell some of my patients that they were going to die, but that was something all doctors had to face as part of the job. House, too, looked more at peace and satisfied with his work as well. The hours were easier for him to handle with his leg. Even though House and I no longer worked at PPTH I kept in touch with friends there and occasionally House would consult on cases for the PPTH Diagnostic Medicine department, under Chase's leadership (not Foreman's), that needed his own particular brand of arrogant genius.

House and Cuddy were back to talking again and while they weren't friends like they had been before their failed relationship things were getting better and I had hope that someday they could be friends again. Strangely enough Cuddy and I remained friends even after House and I became a couple, something I had never thought possible. I don't know why or how that worked—It just did. She began dating again, and was currently living with a widower who was—get this—a carpenter who she'd hired as an independent contractor to do renovations to her home. He was the perfect counterbalance to Cuddy and he had a three year old son of his own that he'd been struggling to raise after his wife died. She'd found herself a reliable, responsible family man who was strong and confident enough to stand up to her when she wanted to treat him like one of her employees. House liked him (though he would have rather died than admit it) and I think he was just as happy for her as I was.

Life wasn't perfect by any means. I still had health issues that were hard on us both but we knew that I always would; we knew there were no guarantees how long I had to live. I'd likely see sixty if I continued to take care of myself which I had no choice but to with House around making certain of it but then again, I knew I could have my heart give out without notice for any number of reasons at anytime. That's why we both decided to live everyday as if it was our last, so that whatever happened there were no regrets. We argued—a lot—but we knew that even when we were angry there was no other person in the world we'd rather be with and being alone was something neither one of us wanted to be again.

Eighteen Months After:

I was a little late meeting House for dinner at the quaint little bistro not far from where the loft I had once own was, the same restaurant House had taken Nora to once when he was trying to bed her before I did—I couldn't believe the idiots we both could be. I'd had a late appointment and then got stuck in one of the worst traffic snarls I'd seen in years. I expected to find a bored, impatient, grumpy diagnostician sitting at our table when I arrived but instead I found him with a pleasant expression on his face (he wasn't quite smiling but close) texting someone on his iPhone. I came up behind him and placed a quick kiss on his neck before sitting down.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I told him. He set his phone down. "Patient, traffic—you know."

"Excuses, excuses."

"I wouldn't have minded if you had gone ahead and ordered," I told him picking up my menu and opening it. Our server came over to our table.

"Good evening," he said to me, "can I get you something to drink to start?"

"I'll have a club soda with lime," I told him. He nodded and looked to House. "Can I refill your coke?" he asked (House had stopped drinking completely for my sake even though I hadn't asked him to do so, and he had never complained about it even once).

"It's about time, Skippy," he told him sarcastically, "your tip is dwindling as we speak."

I looked over my menu at him and gave him my disapproving frown after the server had left the table. He gave me a smart aleck kissy face back. I was about to tell him what else he could kiss when he stood up from the table and came around to stand next to my chair and look down at me. The intensity with which he was staring at me made me very nervous.

"Stand up," he said. I glanced around the busy restaurant and then back at him suspiciously.

"Why?" I asked with trepidation. He rolled his gorgeous blue eyes at me.

"Don't be so suspicious and do it," he insisted, annoyed. There were a few eyes directed in our direction and I figured that rather than create an even bigger spectacle I would do what he wanted. Setting my menu down, I stood up slowly, preparing myself for anything to happen.

"Okay," I told him, "I'm standing. Why am I doing this again?"

He smiled mischievously, pulled out a chair and set it down right in front of me. "You'll see."

Oh. My. God. He wasn't actually…? He wouldn't want to…? He was.

He smiled smugly for a moment and then said in a booming voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention?"

"You can't be serious," I muttered softly to him, trying not to move my lips.

"Shut up," he whispered through his smile, "and enjoy this while you can cause I'm never doing this again."

People started turning their heads to face us all across the room and a low murmur filled the restaurant. I felt every ounce of blood in my body flow to my face.

"Nearly two years ago," House went on once he had everyone's attention, "this man got down on his knee in this very restaurant and asked me to marry him."

I closed my eyes briefly, wondering when someone was going jump out from behind some plant and yell 'sucker!'

"At the time I wasn't ready," my lover went on, the smile on his face losing the mischief and gaining sincerity. "And I f—uh, screwed up a lot since. But for some reason I don't understand, he still loves me. And I want the whole world to know how much I love him."

I felt tears begin to sting my eyes and I tried to blink them back but wasn't having much success.

House sat down in the chair. "This will have to do," he told me. "The floor is not my friend."

I grinned at that and there were a few chuckles around us.

He pulled a black ring box out of his sports jacket pocket. "I have loved you for years, and I never thought you would love me too, but it just goes to show that I don't know absolutely everything—just damned close to it," he said, his volume becoming more intimate but in the silence of the room he could be heard in the farthest corner. He opened the box to reveal a yellow and white gold ring with a thick engraved band and a square cut diamond set deeply into it. It was exactly what I would have chosen for myself. "James Evan Wilson, will you marry me?"

He looked up at me with those incredible eyes that could express a dozen emotions all at once and mesmerize me like no one else's ever had. They were open, and vulnerable and hopeful. I loved him more than anyone else, ever.

I reached down and cupped his cheek gently with my hand, using my thumb to caress his cheek.

"Yes," I answered fervently. "For keeps."

He grinned like a little boy who had received exactly the right toy that he'd wanted for as long as he could remember, slipped the ring onto my finger and stood from the chair. He wrapped his arms around my waist and we kissed. I knew I would be teased forever by him for saying so, but it was truly the most romantic moment in my life. I pulled him into my arms as well, possessing his mouth with mine. There was clapping and the odd whistle and when the kiss was over I whispered to him again how much I loved him.

A voice from behind me, the same one that had voiced her opinion two years ago as well, shouted, "Well, it's about time!"

Both House and I turned our heads to look at the elderly woman and laughed. We sat down at our table, and I took his hand and held it tightly.

"Thank you."

He shook his head. "No. Thank you."

I grinned, "Just wait until I get you home."

House waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Who says we have to be at home? What do you say after we eat we go back to the office and play a little doctor?"

"I've got a better idea," I told him seductively, "I say we take dinner to go."


End file.
